


Warm Me With Your Kiss

by Moosen



Category: Black Widow (Comics), Captain America (Comics), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel (Comics)
Genre: F/M, Fae Natasha, Fantasy AU, Knight Steve, Slow Burn, Witch Natasha, like an extreme slow burn this fic is planned to be quite long, prince bucky
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-26
Updated: 2017-01-22
Packaged: 2018-09-19 03:07:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9415409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moosen/pseuds/Moosen
Summary: As war threatens his lands, Bucky hears tales of a wicked witch that must be controlling the people, twisting the peace into animosity once more. Setting upon a journey of his own, Bucky will get to the bottom of this even if it means facing the witch alone. It may be a suicide mission, or he may find a way to bring peace to his people once more.A BuckyNat au where Bucky is the prince of a kingdom trapped located between Fae kingdoms. Natasha is a Witch that lives in the mountains, one not fond of those who are able to find her.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This prologue is building up the world for the fic, setting the lore more than anything so don't expect a lot of Bucky in it until the very end of it. When the chapters actually begin it'll all be Bucky though.
> 
> Thank you for reading!  
> Kudos and comments are always extremely appreciated.

There is a kingdom, in a land not so far away and from a time not so long ago, wedged between the wonders of nature; a forest told to be enchanted to the West, the cold mountains that stretch unto the heaven’s themselves to the North and to the East a sparkling sea clear as a crystal. It is a place where mythology and reality walk a very fine line, a precisely balanced beam between worlds; the magical and the dull, the real and the fake. Reality became story and story became myth. Myth’s that are just tales told from mother to babe, warning of those that snatch the naughty young children in the dead of night. But that’s all that they are, correct? Fairytales told to keep the children in line, to keep them from acting out or from straying too far.

At least, that’s what he used to believe and it’s what his people still believe.

“Father?” his son’s voice is soft from behind him, like a child afraid of being scorned. It immediately brings his thoughts back to the present. He doesn’t look up, or behind. He knows that he doesn’t need to. There’s no need to see the worry that will be etched in his sons young features, no need to give a space for argument in the least. There is no choice left, a deal must be made and he _will_ bring peace to his people. His gaze slowly lifts from the tinted papers spread across the mahogany desk before him to the window across.

“I’m nearly done here George, you should go keep your mother company. I’ll be along as soon as I can,” there’s a command in his voice that he knows he doesn’t need. It’s a habit more than anything, accompanying any order to any in the palace.  His son is good, he’ll listen to what he says. He doesn’t need to sit here, to watch and be dragged into this political mess. Not yet. The time will come and it will come sooner than any of them would have ever wished for but it is not needed yet. There’s a hesitation in the air before the nearly muted sounds of footsteps is heard in the air, retreating, and the door clicks shut ever so softly.

The room is still for several moments; the only movement is the hand of the grandfather clock as it ticks the seconds away with a slow, monotonous sound. His chair scraps against the stone floor as he pushes his chair back; the sound is loud and harsh against the soft silence of the room as he rises from it. His feet carry him towards the grand window that overlooks the ever stretching palace gardens. Sometimes, when he stares at them from here,  he swears that they never seem to end. He knows otherwise, of course he does. He had them mapped out and the gardeners attended to the work under his supervision. His wife, his queen, adores them so. Since their instillation they’ve become her pride and joy. He would never admit, no matter how much he’s pressed, that he loves them as well. The beauty of them is comforting when he stares out the window, and it’s reassuring even when they’ve faded in color and the leaves have dropped from the trees, the petals lay wilted on the floor because it’s a reminder of the circle of life.

A wheezing cough rumbles through him, hand coming up immediately to cover his mouth. Sometimes he swears these coughs could tear him apart when he starts into a fit. This time, he’s lucky. The cough passes as quickly as it came, the room quieting down back to the tick, tick, tick of the seconds passing by.

Just another reminder.

His gaze catches his reflection in the glass, young, dark eyes staring back at him from a much older face. He’s aged far faster than he ever expected, but he supposes that illness will do that to a man. His gaze travels over the reflection; the wrinkles the line his face, the grey hair snaking it’s way through his brunette locks. If it weren’t for the garbs he wore, the military dress and the stiff collars that distinguished his role, he doubted he would recognize himself in a mirror yet alone a window’s reflection. He cannot help but wonder if his people would still recognize him, if he were to dress like one of them and travel through the kingdom’s grounds. Do they know what has become of him? Once upon a time he had been a fierce leader with blazing brown eyes that were said to be so dark they absorbed the light, and handsome as any other, nary a sign of aging on his face. He had been a king that his people would fawn over, and a ruler of a kingdom that none dared to test. Once upon a time he had been what this land needed.

Once upon a time, he hadn’t been waging a war with a magic he had never known before.

His father had always warned him of the kingdom that lies to the West, those that lived on the side of the enchanted forest. He spun tales about magic and spells, about witches and fae, creatures that could charm you into doing whatever they bid of you. As a boy, he had never believed them. Why should he? They were tales his father told to spook him, to keep him in line and raised in a proper fashion.

Now?

Now he knows better, more than he wished he’d ever known.

He knows now of the power that the other kingdom holds, knows that they truly are not to be trifled with. He now knows that it’s not even _just them_ that holds control over this power, it’s all around them. It surrounds his kingdom in every aspect and he had never known until now. The mountains, the sea, and god forbid the forest that borders his kingdom from the fae kingdom. That forest which is the only thing that keeps them out of each other’s lands, keeps the armies at bay for a majority of the time. It’s comparable to hell in his opinion. Monsters and man eaters, creatures that will peel you flesh from bone, keeping you alive for every second of it just for its own twisted amusement. He’s forbidden any of his people from entering it, even just the edges of the forests are off limits to all. His family, his guards, they’re not exempt from this. Any who enter the forest will suffer punishment. They would never understand if he explained it, told these tales of creatures that exist. He would be written away as the king that had gone mad, insane and could never be trusted again. He’s thankful that none of them ever questioned his ruling, chalking it up to the war he assumes.

But he knows better.

His gaze is drawn from his haggard reflection staring back at him to the lanterns flickering across the paths of the gardens. The wind is light but it blows the flames within enough to make them dance. From this distance, it would be easy to mistake them for the fae and their dances that have no end. His lip curls back in a grimace at the mere idea as he forces himself away from the window completely.

He can’t help the disgust that bubbles in his chest at the idea of fae within his kingdoms walls. The animosity that grows between their lands has been brewing for years, decades upon decades. He cannot think of a time where there has been a true peace between his kingdom and any fae kingdom. At least the fae to the West are understanding, they war because they have to and not because they want to. He suspects, only to himself, that they war because they know no other way. His kingdom is a threat, arised anew from gaining more power in his reign.

A threat that he has the power to stop.

Brown eyes flick back to the desk, to the tinted papers standing out starkly against the dark wood. He has the power to end all of this, to bring them the closest they will ever be to true peace. His tongue darts between his lips quickly. There’s an instinct within him, one that screams to leave it be. To let this war rage on, let this anger never end. As a boy, when the crown was first passed onto him, that is exactly what he would have done. He’s learned better. War is no longer the viable option; it will burn up his palace until there is nary a thing left. He has the power to let it rage on until it consumes them all, or he can end it.

All he has to do is sign his name.

His steps are heavy as he trudges back across the room, his feet wanting to drag with ever step closer to the desk. The treaty is waiting for him, waiting for the pen to touch it and to end it. The end is near, it is _here_ and he knows it. His hand comes to a rest against the back of his plush chair, fingers curling into the velveteen lining the seat.

“If only I were younger...” the words are heavy, loud as they eat up the silence in the room. If only he were younger... What would he do? Would he end the war? Would he let it rage on? Would he bide his time just a little longer, putting off the end so he could cherish this for the little bit left? No. That wouldn’t do any good. He would be acting selfish, acting for his own accord. Stepping around the chair, he slowly lowers himself back into it. No, this is something he _must_ do. His wife, his son, his daughter in law, they all need him to do end this. Even if they don’t realize it, even if they may never understand the steps he’s taken for peace. His gaze darts to the letter that sits to the side, ink still drying for his darling queen. Another sits next to it for George, an explanation that he doesn’t know will ever be accepted. Pulling his chair up, his hand ghosts over the fragile paper, he can only pray that they will read these and understand that this was something he could not avoid.

When he’d sat down to write both letters, he hadn’t been able to quell the way that his hand slightly trembled, the tremor that seemed to run straight through his arm. He’s surprised that he hadn’t spilled the ink anywhere it was not meant to go while he etched the words into the parchment with the nib of his pen. Once he’d begun he hadn’t been able to stop, for either of them. His gaze travels over the words now, reviewing what he’d scribbled out to both of them. They could be better, but they would have to do. Gently, carefully, he places the letters back down at the edge of the desk as his gaze returns to the treaty waiting for him. His hand moves on autopilot as he grasps the pen, dipping the tip into the inkwell. The nib is drowned in the black substance before he brings it up for air once more. Ink drips from it in slow, fat drops to displace the ink that was left behind.

All that’s left to do now is sign his name.

A shudder runs through him and straight down his spine as he stares at the treaty. The line for his name feels as if it’s calling to him, begging for him to dirty it with the dark liquid in his pen. He knows that’s absurd but part of him can’t help but wonder, is it truly? Could the fae possibly have charmed the paper, weaved their will into the parchment? Possibly, yet... There’s a feeling in his gut, strong as ever that they did no such thing. The fae have no need to cheat him in this manner when he’s made the deal willingly. Either way, he can’t question it. Even if this were a trick by the fae, this is still something that he needs to do.

He has to ensure peace. His wife deserves to be able to live the rest of her days out as she wishes, to live in a world of peace rather than the war that she loathes so heavily. His son does not, in any world, deserve to inherit this war that he’s begun, he does not deserve to pass this war along to the grandchildren that he will sire. He’s never thought of himself as a selfless man, rather the opposite. He knows that he has lived a selfish life, he has always taken what he’s needed, what he’s wanted. He’s never raised a question about it, and even this... This peace he chases after is not something he does just out of goodwill, he knows ultimately that it is still a selfish move of him. He does it for himself, for those he cares about, and this why he supposes they listed such a high price for it.

There is no hesitation or even the slightest shake in his hand as puts the pen to the parchment once more, ink draining into its fibers as he signs his name.

* * *

 

Hours have passed since had left his father’s study and he has yet to emerge from the room yet. His mother thought nothing of it when he brought it up to her, assuring him that it was just his father being lost in his work as he was prone to do. He knows that his father is a busy man yet... George cannot help the sinking feeling in his gut, the tightening knot with every minute that passes. Something is off, something has gone wrong. He needs to check on his father.

The halls are silent of everything but his muted steps as he walks through the halls, the plush carpet beneath his boots keeping him from disturbing the silence too much. There’s no rush to his pace even as agitation gnaws at his bones. His mother will be right, she always is. His father is a busy, busy man; after all being the king could do that to a man. Checking up on him is a childish thing to do, he knows that it is and he knows that was acting like a child. Men didn’t go following feelings like these unprovoked. Children did that. It was as if he were a  young boy once more, running crying and scared to his father because something went bump in the night or a shadow passed over his window, spooking him.

There was always a logical explanation, just like there would be with this. His father would just be busy with his work, carried away with the treaty and creating the peace he was suddenly oh so invested in. That or he had fallen asleep at his desk. It wasn’t a rare occurrence for that to happen, even if his mother wished it were otherwise. Either way, it wouldn’t harm either him or his father for him to stop by, and if his father asked he could always feign that he was headed off to bed and that he wished to bid his father goodnight.

The large oak double doors loom before him as he approaches the end of the hall, the door on left was almost always locked while the door on the right was nearly always open. It was rare for his father to have it locked but it did happen on occasion. He can’t help but wonder if it’ll be locked now. Hesitation holds his hand at his side for a brief moment before he raps his knuckles against the solid wood. The sound carries through the wood and he waits for his father’s voice.

And waits.

Swallowing, George raps his knuckles against the wood once more, harder this time. Still, he waits for an answer but none comes to him. Only silence meets him. The anxiety twisting at his gut grips harder, digging it’s dirty little fingers into him roughly. Waiting is no longer an option. His hand drops to the ornate handle, giving it a twist to shove the door open, ever so slightly. Relief floods through him when it opens. Unlocked. That was a good sign.

“Father?” His voice is soft, calm as he can as he calls out. The tick, tick, tick of the clock is the only response that’s returned to him. Another pause, hesitation staying his hand as he wars within himself; does he go in without permission or does he wait? The clock ticks the seconds by, tick, tick, tick. There is still no answer. His spit is a lump as he swallows it down, anxiety drawing his throat closed before he’s pushing the heavy door open further. The dim light of the room greets him, his eyes squinting for just a moment to adjust to it. The candles have burned far too low. His father would have snuffed out long ago if he had gone elsewhere. His step is careful as he enters the room silently.

“Father?” George has to hold himself from flinching as his voice disrupts the room, the silence breaks only to ebb back slowly. Still the only response is the ticking of the clock as it counts each second by. His steps are less careful now as he moves forward, drawing closer and closer to the desk. As he nears it, he’s able to make out a solid shape bent over the desk. His breath catches for just a moment before he exhales softly.

“Father? Did you fall asleep at your desk again?” His voice is gentle as he asks, stepping around the chair and over to his father. He can’t help the soft smile that pulls at the corners of his lips as he places a hand against his father’s shoulder. George’s hand curls around his father’s shoulder, squeezing it gently before giving him a soft shake. “You know that mother doesn’t appreciate when you do this. If you wish to sleep, you really should head to your chambers before she catches you in here.” He can’t help the slight tease in his tone.

He gives his father a brief moment, but there’s no trademark grumbling at the mere idea of having to get up just to go back to sleep. There’s no attempt to swat him away, no return tease of how his mother doesn’t appreciate many things. There’s no nothing at all. Panic courses through him, freezing his blood in his veins. His hand moves of what feels to be its own accord, shifting from his father’s shoulder to his cheek.

Cold. He’s cold.

His hand shoots back to his shoulder immediately. His fingers dig into the fabric of his clothes as he grips hard before shaking him roughly. The movement results in little response, the only movement of his father being that forced by his own hand.

“Father, get up.” He can’t help the worry, the panic that seeps into his voice. “This isn’t funny. Get up.” The ticking of the clock is almost overbearing as he waits for a response. His hand moves quickly to shake his father once more. “Get up before mother gets mad.” He’s certain that his grip must hurt; his nails must be digging in even through the cloth that he wears. Yet there is no reaction, nothing to indicate that he even feels a thing. Ice is seeping through his body, rushing through his veins. His hand drops away from his father quickly as if burned as he stumbles backwards. He doesn’t even register as he’s turning on his heel, rushing from the room. His feet carry him, his steps heavy and muted against the carpet as he sprints through the halls. Stones and paintings rush by him, disappearing as he runs. He pays no attentions to them. He doesn’t even realize where he’s going, where his feet are taking him before he’s throwing himself against the oak doors and shoving it open wide, tripping his over his own feet as he enters his mother quarters.

“George?” His mother’s voice rings out, worry lacing every word. He can barely hear her over his heavy, panted breaths. His tongue feels tied in his mouth, dry as ever and he doesn’t know if he can say a thing even if he gets his breathing under control.

“George?” Her voice comes again, this time accompanied with clicking of her heels against the tiled stone floor as she steps towards him. His vision is hazy as he stares down at the red carpet and he can’t place why. His head snaps up as her shoes come into his vision and he can hear the soft sound she emits. He knows from the way that she stares at him that he must be quite the sight. Brown eyes wild, hair slickened with sweat from running, framing and sticking to his face in ways that are ill-fitting for a royal. Her hand hovers over her mouth as she stares at him with wide eyes, her exact expression unreadable through his bleared gaze. “What’s wrong? You’re crying...”

Was he? He hadn’t even realized. He assumed the slickness on his face had just been sweat but perhaps it was tears. It doesn’t matter. He doesn’t bother to try to wipe them away as he swallows, throat hurting as his mouth is drier than a desert.

“Mother, its father.” His voice is ragged as he breathes the words out. “You must come quickly.”

* * *

 

He’s not allowed in the room, the guard and the doctors won’t allow him past the doorway. His mother had sent him away to his room after she’d followed him the study, after she’d put the pieces together. She told him to go there until this is sorted out, that he doesn’t need to be concerned with this process. Of course he didn’t listen to that. It takes every ounce of his being to not pace outside the door, anxiety humming through his muscles as he leans against the heavy oak of the locked door. The right side is open just a miniscule gap. Enough that he can hear their voices, a low rumble from the guards and the doctors and the soft lilt of his mother’s voice – God.... His mother’s voice. It absolutely breaks his heart. While he cannot hear the words she utters, he can hear the tone clear as day. There’s no mistaking the struggle to stay strong, to keep herself together as her voice wavers and cracks, threatening to shatter into a million pieces.

He loses track of the amount of time he spends waiting, the time trying to pry on what’s happening within the study’s walls before the door is finally pulling open, sending him reeling back away from it. The head of the guard pauses for a brief moment, green eyes flashing over him as he regards him. Sorrow is heavy in those eyes and George forces his gaze away immediately.

He will not be pitied because of this matter, because of his father’s passing.

The guard doesn’t linger. He can see the other bow his head in respect from the corner of his eye before excusing himself. His steps are heavy but muted as he trudges down the hall, George can’t help but turn to watch him go. That man had been close to his father, one of his most trusted advisors. Is he as hurt, as angry about this loss as he is? Could he possibly understand what he’s going through at all? Maybe, just maybe, the man could offer some advice, some sort of words of comfort to help him through this. A rising urge to chase after him begins to bubble in his chest but his mother’s voice keeps him rooted where he stands.

“George, I had asked you to go to your room,” it’s hushed and holds no anger but he knows she means to chastise him. He disobeyed her orders, yet he can’t find it in himself to care just now. There’s a pause between them, a hesitation from his mother as he doesn’t garner any response to her words. “Walk with me. Please.” Her hand is was as it brushes his arm, the gentlest of touches, yet he can’t help but move away as if he had been scorched by it. He doesn’t seek comfort, not truly. Anger pulses through him, burning white hot and aching for something to make this injustice right. He shifts his body as he steps, keeping a foots distance between them before he nods his head. He lets his feet guide him, turning to lead his mother towards the gardens. They are her sanctuary after all, and he knows she needs something to comfort her even if he cannot be the one to provide it.

Silence fills the space between the two, making the air heavy with words that neither wishes to speak. His gaze is directed forward, sharp and focused on the regal, plush maroon carpet they trudge along. His mother is to his left, her clothing the only bright light in the dark hall. He pays no attention to the portraits, the tapestries that hang along the walls as they pass. They flicker in and out of the corner of his vision with every step he takes. There is no rush to either of their steps but still no time passes before he’s heaving open the heavy door, letting his mother step out into the grounds before him. The air is brisk, cool against his burning skin as he steps out, pulling the door shut behind him. His gaze darts around the grounds, light is filtering in through the East slowly. Morning is coming upon them. The lights in the lanterns dance in the subtle winds, low and near the end of their life yet still mystical in their own way.

At least, it could be mystical had it been any night but this night.

Their steps are quiet as they walk along the cobbled path, her heels clicking away the loudest sound around them. Even with the breeze, nary a thing dared to make a noise. The world was at a standstill, an understanding of the tragedy that has befallen the kingdom. The world will stop, even if just for a moment. His gaze flicks to the sky. It is clear and bright as any other night, the stars shining above them and no cloud in sight. How unfitting. The heavens should open up, weep for the loss that they’re experiencing. Yet there is nothing.

“The doctors informed me that it was a heart attack,” his mother’s voice is soft as she speaks next to him yet it still startles him; his gaze darting over, brown eyes widening for a moment that she had dared to break the silence of the night before he wrenches it away. “He has – had – been ill for so long... They told me that his heart was weakened by the illness; it has been coming for a long while. It was just that it had finally taken its toll on him, to the point where he could take no more. Nothing we could have done could have ever prevented this...”

His hands curl into fists at his sides, his lower lip beginning to tremble in a threat of pulling back into a snarl. He has to resist the urge to stop in the path, to stomp his feet, yell, scream to her and to the heavens. _Nothing we could have done could have prevented this? **Nothing?**_ They could have done more. They could have found better treatments, could have ended the war _sooner_ and bargained with the other kingdom. If any of the tales are true and they truly were magic, then they could have healed him. They could have looked for help _outside of these damn walls._ Anywhere would have done. Surely there was something more they could tried, anything at all. He refuses to be that there was absolutely nothing.

It was a lie.

But that would unfit for a prince to do. A prince does not stop, scream, and throw a tantrum. He keeps his head held high and breathes in deep as he possibly can to march through the distress. So he grinds his teeth instead, swallowing down the rage that bubbles in the back of his throat, threatening to choke him. It’s almost enough to make his head spin.

“You...” A hesitation catches her voice before she clears her throat. “You have to understand that his passing, well... It means that the throne will be thrust upon you sooner than anticipated. You will be taking his place,” her voice is careful as she tries to pick her words with grace. She fails to do so. With every word that falls from her mouth, it’s clear that this is a subject she very much did not want to broach this subject. But they  both know there is little choice in the matter.

“And if I were to refuse to take the crown? You could rule alone as queen Mother, we both know you’re capable of it.” The bitterness in his voice is acidic, burning straight through him and making him regret spitting the words out immediately. His mother hesitates once more next to him. He doesn’t mean to slight her; he just refuses to accept that this is the end. If he takes the crown then his father is truly gone forever.

“That isn’t how it works. You aren’t a child anymore George. You’re a young man, married to a wife who is with child. You have a whole new world of responsibility lined up for you. Your father has raised you well, raised you properly. You know that this is your birthright, that you are to carry on his legacy. You are ready to lead.” George can’t help the way that the words cause his feet to drag, feeling as if her were walking on lead blocks rather than flesh and bone.

His legacy? What does that even mean? What does it _matter?_ His father is _gone,_ there is no changing that. He doesn’t care for the rest.

“Please explain to me Mother, what legacy exactly am I supposed to be upholding?” The stinging bite seeps into his voice with every word that he utters. “Father is known for his threats upon kingdoms, for his wars. Am I supposed to be the new warlord? The one to keep his never ending bloodshed going, or to finish what he started and eradicate the other kingdoms. Is that the legacy that you speak of?” The words are like the bile the way they spill from him. He regrets them immediately, wishing that he can take them back. He has never viewed his father in those lights, knowing that he was never a cruel or unjust man. He did what he had to for his kingdom.

He’s several paces ahead before he realizes that his mothers steps have silenced, that she’s stopped. His own steps draw to an end but he doesn’t turn back. He can’t look at her, can’t see the expression that she wears.

“George.” Her tone is hushed but harsh, his name cutting through the night air. Within an instance he feels like a babe again, a toddler being scolded for being out of line. “Your father has done what he had to do. You _know_ this. And just as he did, you too will do what _you_ have to do. As for the wars that this kingdom wages, for the bloodshed that you speak of? His last act as king had been to sign that treaty. He wanted to usher in a new era of peace and we will ensure that it is kept. A messenger has already sent it off to the kingdom to the West before they can hear of this news. There will be peace between the kingdoms, and the legacy you will uphold is _that._ Not the mistakes that _his_ father had bred into him. Her words sting like a slap to the face, drawing a wince from him yet he still can’t bring himself to turn around.

“ _You_ are his legacy.” Her voice is softer, gentler as the words pass through the air. His eyes snap shut tight and his teeth grind together once more. He knows there’s truth in his mothers word but they feel like an attack not a comfort; as if his mother aims to hurt him with those simple words rather than make him feel at peace. He knows better yet he cannot stop the ache in his chest.

“He’s left a letter for you. Your father was always a wise man, I believe he knew that his time was drawing to an end. If theres questions you have for him, things you never got answered, I’m sure that he’s left an explanation for anything you seek from him on those pages.” Her heels click against the cobblestone path once more as she crosses the distance between them, growing louder with every step. His eyes clench tighter in an attempt to drown them out. Her hands are warm as they gently take his from his side, turning him ever so slowly and pulling against her in a gentle hug. Warmth radiates from her. He hadn’t even realized how cold his skin felt until that moment.

“It’s going to be okay.” Her voice is soft, a comforting tone.

He doesn’t know if he believes her but he nods his head in agreement anyway.

* * *

 

The music fills the cathedral as it sings out loud but he can’t pay attention to it. He’s vaguely aware of a woman’s voice ringing out in a beautiful tone, accompanied by piano and violin. He’s sure there’s more but he can’t focus. Instead his gaze is drawn before him, down towards the ground. He’s been in this seat gaze glued to the stones tiled into the floor for so long now that he’s sure if he were to close his eyes for any period of time that would be all that he sees. His gaze trails the smooth lines dividing them up, the intricate way they fit together; they were all just pieces of a puzzle that belonged in place. What would happen if one were to be removed? If it were to be taken from the spot that it’s so desperately required? The removal wouldn’t aid in anything, would it? No. All it would to is cause those who stepped over it, stepped on it, to trip and to stumble. It would cause injuries. Why was it that a stone has it’s place in the floor for all time, yet a human life can flicker and be gone do easily?  A light weight comes to rest on his right shoulder, he doesn’t bother to look. He knows that it’s his mother’s hand. Her ring adorned fingers squeeze his shoulder gently in an attempt to relieve tension but all it causes is for him to tense, shoulder tightening under her grip before he shrugs her off gently as he can. Fingers brush by his left hand, a question if it’s okay for to take his hand with theirs.

These last few days, he knows that he’s been distant. Any touch, any comfort, has been shucked away. He knows that it’s wrong, that he can’t do these things. Especially not to her. His head turns slightly, golden brown gaze lighting up to meet the brilliant blues of his wife’s eyes. His hand slides over the arm rest just enough to grasp her slender hand in his. She’s warmer than him and he welcomes her warmth. Concern shine bright in her eyes but she doesn’t say a thing, anything and everything she could possibly ask or say is there in her grip.

Setting his shoulders, a slow exhale is dragged from his lungs before he turns his attention forward, gaze up this time. The masses are gathered before him, arranged around the casket in the middle of the room, grieving for the king. George can’t help the flare of anger that surges through them as his gaze darts over those before him. They grieve for the king like they knew him, but they _didn’t_. They didn’t know him in the least, never cared for him beyond the fact that he kept them safe. His teeth grind together roughly as he huffs a breath out through his nose. Winifred’s gentle grip squeezes his hand just slightly. He doesn’t look back at her, knowing if he looks away he’ll never get the nerve to look back.

“They weep for him yet how can they care for him. None of them knew him,” the venom in his voice as he hisses out the words is lethal. He knows only those next to him will hear the words.

“They care, George,” his mother’s voice is soft as she speaks. He doesn’t spare her even a glance. “Your father loved them, and they loved him in return. Just because they may not have known him as you or I did does not mean they do not get to mourn him as we do. Don’t hold your anger at his loss against them. They are just as hurt, just as angry as you or I.” That couldn’t be true. It couldn’t. How could any of these... these _strangers_ dare to even try to hold a candle to his own emotions? They don’t know the rage that bubbles beneath his surface, the agony that’s tearing at him and dragging him further and further down the hole in his heart.

“Mourn for him,” Winifred’s voice is soft and sweet, a whisper in his ear as if she were an angel speaking to him. “Mourn for him however you need my love, but your mother _is_ right. Your people loved – _love_ your father. Just as they will love you. Do not hate them, promise me this? Look upon their faces and see the truth in their hurt.” He can’t help the way his teeth grind together once more, he swears that he won’t have a single tooth by the time he’s through this. He nods his head, the action is jerky and feels unnatural in the instance but the least he can do is promise her that.

He pays little attention to the footsteps that draw closer, gaze skipping over the heads of his people to stare at the casket that holds his father. Winifred’s hand squeezes his once more, gentle as ever but reassuring.

“It’s time,” the guard’s voice is low and somber as the words tumble from him. George cranes his head around to look at him, gaze blank and void before he nods, moving to stand. Reluctantly he releases Winifred’s hand to pick his gloves off the arm of the throne, slowly tugging onto his hands in a mechanical motion a he rises. His body is stiff as a board as he steps away from the thrones, walking through the parted crowds. He gaze darts away from the casket now, jumping between the faces of those that line the aisles. Strangers, they’re all strangers... Yet, at this distance he can take in the bloodshot eyes, the tears that stained their faces. They’re strangers, yet this still cared... didn’t they? The tears they let fall, the sobs that underscored the music weren’t false. His shoulders set as he stands taller, another slow exhale leaving him.

They’re going to need him; he needs to remain strong for them, his father’s people... _his_ people.

His steps are drowned out by the music as the guard leads him forward towards the casket. His stomach twists and turns, knotting deep within him at the idea of being near it. There is no lid, nothing to hide the body of his father. He is on display for all to see for one last glimpse. Yet none stand near it. None are permitted to. The king sits alone in the center of the room until the moment that those he held closest to him will take him to his final resting place.

“Your place is, of course, at the head of the casket.” The guard hesitates for just a moment as if he wars to continue with his sentence. “This is something you’re under no requirement to do my liege. It’s up to you to decide. It would be understandable—“ His hand shoots up to silence the guard before he can babble on any further.

“He is my _father_. Of course I will do this,” the words are snapped out in a way he hadn’t planned on but the guard doesn’t dare to peep another word. His body is numb as he walks forward, steps heavier and heavier the closer he draws to his position. His gaze remains forward, unfocused as he stares at nothing while the others take their places. He doesn’t need to look back to see who will be this walk with him. His father’s oldest friends, his nearest advisor’s, will take their positions. His palms are slick with sweat as he waits for the trumpets to blare. It’s as if time stands still, waiting for everything and nothing at the same time. An eternity could have passed by and he’s sure he would never have known. It was ironic, wasn’t it? That time would stand still for him, freezing this moment but it would continue on. The clocks for him would not stop, yet his father would never have a second tick by for him again. Perhaps ironic wasn’t the word he was searching for. No, he was sure the term that fit it best was _unfair,_ or perhaps even unjust. His hands curl into balled fists at his sides, his gloves the only things stopping his nails from digging into his palms.

Finally, the trumpets sound their mournful notes into the cathedral as his hands uncurl. He’s glad that he can’t feel the handle beneath his fingers as he grasps it, waiting for the command. He barely hears it, registering the voice over the words and in one swift action they heft the casket upwards to rest it upon their shoulders. There’s a shake in his hands, his entire body that he’s positive has nothing to do with it’s weight. His feet are leaden as he takes the first step forward, walking in time with the other pallbearers. He pays no attention to each step, everything around him a greyed out blur as his body moves on autopilot. The mourners move further back as they march towards the exit, the sobs barely registering on his ears through the sounds of the trumpets horn. All he can register is the thump, thump, thump of his heart as it beats and the rushing of the blood in his ears as it turns the world into white noise.

This was the end of it; there was no returning after these moment was there? His father was utterly, truly gone. His mouth runs dry at the thoughts, tongue heavy in his mouth. Time has no meaning for him as he steps in line, making progress through the cathedral and stepping out into the lush grounds that lay beyond it. The path that they are to follow weaves between bushes that he’s always adored wandering amongst, flowers that he’s always found beautiful. He had once picked Winifred a bouquet of flowers from these very gardens when they had first begun to court. There had always been amazement in the cathedrals grounds, but now, now he can’t see any of that in the greenery around him. Why should he see the beauty of it? The life that surrounds him? It’s all going to die anyway, after all everything comes to an end, doesn’t it?

It feels like eons have passed before the lush green gives away and the sea lay out before them. Sunlight glints off the calm surface as it waits for them. His father used to tell him that the water was mystical, that it was only so clear that you could see through it no matter how deep you went from the fae that lived in it; all of it nonsense that his father weaved tales of when they were on the boats. It had just been a way to keep him from ever going too deep, or leaping off a boat like he’d always been tempted. The sea held none of its mystical allure today. It stood stone still as if holding its breath in sorrow. Perhaps it was only appropriate that they were sending his father off this way. George’s gaze draws across the water, over to the boat that waits docked for them. After all, his father had always had a love for the sea.

The path winds between the bushes leading them through to the beach and the dock, to the boat and the lantern that wait for them. In the fading light from the sun the lantern is just barely visibly lit, the flame dance in a wind that nobody else can feel. The boat rocks gently beneath their feet as they step on, gently and carefully unloading the casket against its floor. George’s gaze drops immediately, to the deck of the boat as he takes in its craftsmanship. He can’t bring himself to look within the casket, can’t see what has become of his father. It rocks gently as they step off in turn, he is the last to remove himself. One by one, the other pallbearers place a hand upon his shoulder, giving it a small squeeze and they mumble out a condolence. He doesn’t listen, doesn’t bother to pay attention. All of the words will be the same after all. Nor does he look at them, gaze drifting up from the dock now beneath his feet and out to the sea stretching before him.

Steps sound from behind him, drawing closer yet he doesn’t spare a glance. Not even when he feels a soft hand brushing over his shoulder as his mother passes him. A flash of white catches his eye and this time, he lets his gaze follow her as she steps up, onto the boat and towards the casket. A white lily is gently clenched in her grip. The petals tremble ever so slightly as his mother tries to keep herself from shaking as she steps towards the casket. He can’t help but stare at the white of the lily; it’s so pure, untainted. Just like this sea, just like these lands. But none of it fits. This isn’t pure. This is a funeral, a death, the end of the life of a great man. There is _nothing pure_ about any of it. He can feel the rage bubbling within his chest once more, clawing and tearing at him from the inside out. George tears his gaze away, turning his head so he doesn’t have to watch.

His mother’s voice is soft, whispered and yet the subtle wind that blows carries it’s sound through the air as she says her goodbyes to his father. He cannot bear to listen. The tone of her voice is enough to dig a dagger in his chest, he cannot fathom what hearing her actual words could possibly do to him. So he lets the be white noise, meaningless and unknown to him. His hands curl into fists at his sides once more, his eyes clenching shut. He doesn’t move, doesn’t dare to shift even a muscle he waits for her to finish.

“George,” his mother’s voice is soft. He has no concept of the amount of time that has passed, but he knows that it’s nearly over. Her hand touches his sounder ever so softly, this time he doesn’t shrug her away. “It’s time for you to say your final goodbye.” Her voice wavers as she speaks and he does his best to ignore it. His eyes open and his gaze is slow as it swings from the sea to the boat, his father’s casket sitting neatly within. He gives a small nod of his head in acknowledgement before stepping forward. His hand reaches out, grasping the torch next to him. He pulls it from its position, carrying it alongside him as he steps towards the boat. He stalls at the edge of the dock, staring at the casket. He can see wisps of his father’s hair, browns mixed with grey’s and the tint of his skin as it pokes out of the top of the casket. It freezes his step, causing him to stand stone still for several moments.

He still can’t bear to look within the casket.

A slow exhale escapes him as he adjusts his grip on the torch. Slowly, he lowers the flame into the stern of the boat, into the rags soaked in kerosene. The yells of guards around him, shouting to cast the boat off before it’s being pushed out to sea. The flame is steadily building as he stares, watching a dry mouth.

“...Goodbye Father,” the words are barely above a whisper as the flames start to engulf the casket. The child within him screams for his father, shouts to save him. Swim out to sea and stop the fire from consuming him and bring him home. There must be a way to _save him._

George tears himself away quickly, unable to watch as the rest of the ship as it’s burned away, as the remains of his father turn to ash. There is no return from this. Nothing will ever bring him back. His body moves on its own accord as he begins to walk, steps steadily bringing him through the crowd. Only those that had been close to the king were permitted for this, it was more intimate that the viewing and he was grateful for it. He doesn’t spare a glance for any of them as his feet carry him briskly away. The path is nothing to his pace and soon he rounds the cathedral, cutting through the grounds that lead straight towards the palace. The moment he knows he’s out of sight of the others, of anybody that could pry into his life, he breaks into a run. His feet beat against the ground so hard his feels sparks shoot through them as he bolts through the yard. He has no care as he gets to the doors, as he slams into the oak door to throw it wide open and rushing inside. There’s no moment to pause to even shut it behind him. The walls are a blur as he moves through the palace, no control of where he’s headed.

It’s only after he’s through the door, leaning heavy on the oak and his breaths coming in wavering pants does he ever realize his destination.

His father’s study stretches out before him. His legs shake, quaking until his knees give way, unable to hold him any longer. He begins to slide down the solid oak door until he’s rested against the plush carpet. His hands drop to the sides, digging into the fibers and twisting. He can’t stop the way that his vision blurs, his breath beginning to hitch with every gasp.

There is not a thing he can do as his body finally allows himself to cry.

* * *

 

Time has passed, as it’s prone to do for the living. Seconds become minutes, which become hours and then days. It ticks by without a thought to those who cannot get enough of its precious commodity and there is nary a thing he can do to stop any of it. Since his father’s passing, he has been crowned the king and his crowned his queen. The coronation had passed in a blur for him, barely a thing for him to remember. The days have been bleak, his loss weighing heavily on his shoulders. The days have dragged, as if trying to slow him down even further.

There was still a hole in his heart that he could not bear to think on. His father’s study had remained locked since the funeral. He was unable to set foot in it and wished that nobody would be allowed to disturb it, so he sectioned it off. The large double oak doors locked to all unless he deems it otherwise. He knows that he cannot run and hide from it forever. There are answers within the room to questions he’d never thought he would have. He knows that he will have to enter it one day, yet he still hadn’t been able to bring himself to do so. Fear stayed his hand.

He had begun to question if the days would ever improve, if the world would ever brighten for him once more. How could it? With the loss of his father, the responsibility thrust upon him? How could he ever see the light in the dark again? He had been trained in the ways of ruling a kingdom, but he was at a loss of how to be a king; as well as he had never been trained in the dealings of loss. Yet... He didn’t dare say it aloud, but as the days passed and turned into weeks, the weeks into months, it was all becoming easier.

The world was becoming a brighter place once more.

And now... He can’t help but stare down in awe and amazement, joy coursing through his veins at the bundle he holds within his arms. Winifred lies on the bed, watching him with an exhausted, loving smile.

“George,” her voice is warm but fraught with exhaustion. Nonetheless it is a lullaby to his weary ears. “Please come closer.” It’s a simple request, one that he doesn’t need even a moment to contemplate as he’s immediately moving to his queen’s side. Slowly, carefully, he lowers himself beside her. The bed dips beneath his weight and he leans himself backwards against the plethora of pillows that span the headrest to be closer to her.

“He’s absolutely beautiful,” his voice is a whisper but the awe seeps into every crevice of it anyway as he speaks, unable to look away from his newly born son. “He will have your beauty, you know that right my love?” A soft hum comes from Winifred as she leans closer, resting her head against his shoulder.

“He will be the most handsome boy in all the lands, taking very well after his father.” George can’t help a small snort at her words but they still make his heart sing. He watches as her hand reaches out across him, ever so gently brushing her soft fingers against their son’s cheek. “What shall we name him?”

“We’ve talked about this before Wini,” his voice is warm and loving as he speaks. “We’ll name him Buchanan after your father.”

“I was going to suggest, with everything that’s happen that maybe...” She trails off softly. “Would you like to name him James?”

“James,” he echoes the name softly, staring down at their son.

“I want to honor your father, and the man that he was. If our son will never be able to meet him, I want him to carry a piece of him.” George can’t help the way that his lips curl up in a smile,  gaze softening as he turns it to his wife.

“James Buchanan.” The name rolls off his tongue easily enough. He knows it might be a mouthful but he doesn’t care. “We’ll honor them both at once.” He absolutely adores the way that her lips curl into a smile at that, her gaze returning to their son.

“James Buchanan,” she hums out in tired agreement.

“Welcome to the world, my son. Our prince,” his voice is soft as he coos down at his son, gaze returning to the sleeping bundle in his arms. “James Buchanan Barnes, you will live a life of great meaning.”


End file.
